Merge
by Naisumi
Summary: A Wanda fic.


Title: Merge 

Parts: One-shot 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn. 

Warnings: Actual acknowledgement of Season Two, angst, symbolism, darkness, talk of killing, the presence of Wanda for all you suckers that don't know who she is ^.~ 

Pairings: None 

  


Notes: Wandafic! Coolness, huh? Well, Mor tells me that there are already four Wanda fics that include scarily somewhat-incestuous mentions of Pietro, but I don't care :P This is my contribution to the ever-growing populace of crap that has invaded our beloved Evo-section. It might be my last fic in a while, 'cause I'm overtaken by shallow teenage turmoilness not to mention a growing hatred for almost all of my IRL friends. Plus, I've got some creepy college-classes I'm taking over the summer (naive sophomore-turning-junior that I am T.T My high school counselor says 'Go for it!') coming up, so...yes. Enjoy the darkness, yo. Fight back against CRAP! *raises fist* 

And yes, the last two sentences aren't meant to go together. Anyways...read. ^^ 

  


Enjoy and Review!! 

  


  


Additional Notes: Not betad. Wandaness. ^^ I wrote this in math class as a brain-jogger to try to get more Could've Been to come out, but it didn't really work. (You can probably tell when I stop to pay attention to the reciprocal trigonometry functions XD) 

  


  


--   
  
  


You wonder, I know, why I'm like this. You wonder how I've changed, how my anger has managed to manifest itself into this...this dark, dark _thing_. You wonder and wonder--and I watch you wonder, bitter about how you don't know. You're supposed to know, Pietro--you're _supposed_ to without me telling you. You're supposed to, because I'm not the strong one--at least, I wasn't. I'm strong now, though; being alone does that to you. I learned to stop thinking of myself as the little sister of a protective older brother, a brother more knowledgeable of the wide, wondrous world by two point eight--2.8--seconds. Only 2.8. Yes, I stopped thinking of myself like that and in the process, I became strong. Strong enough to face the world, strong enough to hate this world; strong enough to hate you and them, and me; strong enough to crave revenge more than life; strong enough to not give a damn about anyone. 

But not strong enough to love. 

Oh, why did you leave me, Pietro? We could've loved the world together. No--not this world. This _life_--because life is so, so beautiful even though the world is more, more ugly. _Why did you leave me_? Though, I suppose I can't blame you. After all, it was our own father--_our goddamn father_--that led you from me. What else can sway a brother's devoted love if not the devil himself? The devil himself, Pietro--you left me for the devil himself. I can't forgive you for that. I'm not your little sister anymore. I'm not weak anymore. I can't love anymore. And now...I blame the devil and you. 

Why did you leave me, Pietro? Why did you leave me when you promised--promised, promised, promised--that you never would? I sat there, Pietro, until I went mad and tried to escape. I sat there and renounced God for abandoning me--as you abandoned me--by His inaction. I imagined you with your sweet smile unlike that of our father's and I imagined you, the Devil, and God burning together. I imagined the world collapsing into a little pale room with pale padded walls filled with tears and sobs and screams and fearangerhatepervertedmemories. I imagined you holding me like you used to do, imagined me plunging a quiet dagger into your narrow chest, its tender blade slipping in silently like starlight slicing the moon into ribbons, like a sacrilegious mimic of love-making, your flesh and blood and open mouth, glazed eyes, clammy skin violated by the pretty, pretty knife I'd kill you with. I wonder if your body is ready to surrender its virginity to death, brother who is no longer a brother. I wonder if you're ready to die for Satan, for your sins, for your betrayal. Then again, Hell shouldn't be too unfamiliar, wouldn't you say? We've both been there. _I've_ been there. I wonder if you've suffered as much as I have. If you have...well, that doesn't really matter. It doesn't change anything, Pietro. Nothing changes anything. I'll kill you, you know. I'll kill you--cage you--bury you alive. Alive...are you even still alive, my brother who is not my brother? I look into your eyes and I see a curious deadness most unsatisfying; no fear; the dead do not fear. No agony--the dead do not scream. It's at those moments when I wonder why you look so empty. It's at those times when I'm not sure if I want to laugh at you, hate you even more, or try to fix you even as I can't fix myself. 

But you're not dead, Pietro. You're still here in this flesh-made coffin. _You're not dead_ and you have no right to act as if you were. Father--Father?--isn't dead either, but I don't care about that. I'll get him, Pietro. I'll destroy him. But you were my brother...so I won't destroy you. I'll only kill you. Do you understand? Do you understand the difference? I'm going to break our Father, Pietro. Our Father--father--Father. I'll break him and leave him looking dead, too. Dead...your eyes are so dead, Pietro; not at all the pretty china blue I remember you having. Why do you look so dead? You're not allowed to look pitiful. You're not allowed to make me feel. _You're not allowed_! You've never been fair, Pietro. No--yes, you have. Father must've blinded you, right, Pietro? Then, Pietro, that's not your fault. That isn't. But it's okay. I'll still kill you. If I kill you, would your eyes spark for a moment? Would they gaze at me as if you were alive in all ways? Would they be a pretty china blue like before? Yes...I'll help you repent, Pietro. I'll help you repent from the Devil. Then I won't have to hate you--then you won't be not allowed to make me feel. I could be your little sister again, Pietro. I Could be your little sister again...after you suffer. After we're in the same place. After...after we're like what we were before. 

That's going to be hard, isn't it, Pietro? After all, the past is something most people can't reclaim. But we're not most people. We've never _been_ most people--so maybe there's hope for the two of us after all. Just don't ask me to forgive our father, Pietro. Don't ask me to be good and kind and understanding. Maybe I can forgive you and your dead broken china blue eyes after a while, but don't you _dare_ ask me to forgive him--your father. Yours and yours alone. Did you miss me, when it was just the two of you? You were never patient enough to make dinner for us when he wasn't home, so I used to. What did you eat, I wonder, after I was gone? Half-cooked pasta with cold cheese, a la carte, you must've told Father. Maybe he believed you. Maybe he just didn't care. I don't know. I can't even imagine you sitting in the kitchen by yourself, for some reason. I just can't imagine you by yourself...without me. 

We're _twins_, Pietro. Twins. We're a part of each other; we've been together from the start. It's unavoidable, really, and I know I can't keep going on hating you. Right now we're on the same team but we're not on the same side. When you say his name, you still look sad, remorseful, hurt. When Mystique says that we're going to destroy him, you flinch away in horror, grief, some inbred anguish. When you say he was no father to you, there's an odd glow of despair in your eyes. No, we're not on the same side. You still feel compassion for that monstrous bastard; you still think of him as your father. I don't know why, but you do and so we're not on the same side. But that's okay. I promise you, though, I will get you back, Pietro--after you've repented, after I forgive you--because we're twins. They can't keep up apart. He couldn't keep us apart. 

  


And neither can you. 

  


  


~fin~ 


End file.
